Sequelae
by grumkinsnark
Summary: Dean says he’s all right, that the djinn’s reality wasn’t real, that Let’s just go Sam, leave me alone Sam, I’m fine. But Sam knows better. Tag to “What Is and What Should Never Be.”


**Sequelae

* * *

**

Whatever Dean may say about him, whatever techniques Dean may use to shut himself off, whatever bullshit he spews, Sam knows better. You don't spend your entire life with someone, ninety percent of that time within twenty feet from one another, and not know them as well as you know yourself. Sam certainly doesn't need those Psych courses he took for his minor to tell what Dean's thinking and feeling.

So when Dean says he's fine, agrees—however half-heartedly—that yeah, it's worth it to have a perfect life ripped out from under you and be catapulted back into the shit-ass life that you led before, Sam would like to accept it. But he can't. Dean may not notice the desolation in his dark eyes, but Sam does. Sam won't ever know exactly what Dean saw in the djinn's reality, nor what everyone was like, nor what would have happened if Dean hadn't so superhumanly pulled himself out, 'cause Dean's sure as hell not going to tell him. And, if Sam's being honest, he's not completely positive he even _wants_ to know.

And honestly, Sam would've just gone with the flow (it isn't like Dean's not done this stonewalling thing a gazillion times before), just let Dean's emotions ride it out, were it not such a huge fucking elephant in the room. The tenseness that surrounds Dean every waking and sleeping moment feels to Sam like a third person, a parasite that's leeching all semblances of equilibrium and health from Dean and mocking Sam with it.

The worst thing?

Sam can't help. Not even at all.

The first day, Sam can allow the quietude, the dismal expressions, and the brief glances towards his pistol. It isn't the first time the Winchesters have had brushes with death, or even with alternate realities. Dean had experienced a whole 'nother livelihood, and it had been a better one at that; Sam can grant Dean a little bit to recover. They don't have another immediate hunt to embark upon, anyway.

Here's the first thing you should know about Dean: he's a master at compartmentalizing. It's been true as long as Sam can remember, whether manifesting itself as Dean being unaffected by a girl breaking up with him he'd really liked, or Sam and Dad getting into yet another fight, or Sam getting hurt, or any of a million other scenarios. He'd been virtually flawless at the skill before Sam had left for Stanford, and when he'd joined back up with his brother after Jessica's death, he'd found Dean was even _more_ flawless. Oh, sure, Dean would let some emotions show now and then, but even at those times, Sam could tell that Dean was aware of what he was showing. It wasn't like he was utterly vulnerable and at mercy of them.

Even at night, Dean's good at compartmentalizing, that's a fact that had taken Sam a little longer to figure out, but eventually had found is nonetheless true. He'd been four, and Dean had been eight, and Dean had gotten his arm broken—badly—by some creature Sam can't even remember the name of now. What he _does_ remember is that they'd been forced to stay in the motel due to a hell of a storm, and therefore couldn't get to a hospital to right the bone. John'd been pretty good at first aid, but he wasn't a trained medical professional. John was all for the rub-dirt-in-it method, but in this particular instance, he could see that Dean's arm was too mangled for that. They didn't have any anesthesia, either. (Unfortunately not even in the form of alcohol or something equally as crude, to top it all off.)

That night, both John and Sam had been expecting Dean to groan and mumble and cry and scream at the pain in his arm, but he hadn't. He'd just lain there silently, only allowing one tear to make its way down his cheek and the bed sheets fist in his hand to show the hurt he was in. Ultimately, he'd fallen asleep, which, given the injury, shouldn't have been possible in the first place. John and Sam had watched him all night, watched for some sign of distress, but Dean's face had been as placid as ever, the only indication that he was less than perfect being the odd angle of his useless limb.

It was a sighed confession about a decade later that informed Sam Dean hadn't, in fact, been so calm about the thing. In truth, Dean had merely been faking the sleep, and underneath that carefully weaved guise, had felt fire throughout his system, as if hungry rats were gnawing on his marrow and nerves. It'd been a short confession, not really detail-laden, but Sam inferred the rest.

He'd been shocked, to say the least, and it had forced him to go back through his memories and all the times Dean had said he was doing just dandy, when he was doing just the opposite. Sam hadn't told John, because he knew both that Dean wouldn't want him to, and that John would only praise Dean for his stoniness, for being up to scratch on John's ridiculously high standards. (Well, that last part John hadn't actually _said_, that's more how Sam always furiously thought of his father's orders, but same difference.)

He'd not seen anything that would suggest Dean would behave otherwise, so the night after Sam saves his brother from having the blood sucked out of him, he'd fully anticipated a flat, uneventful sleep coming from the bed to his right. Sam, conversely, had planned to stay up all night, make sure Dean wouldn't try to sneak out in the middle and go drown himself in liquor or something equally as stupid. Plus, he had some reading he could catch up on.

The initial hours pass without incident, the rhythmic fall and rise of Dean's chest too regular for even Dean's immaculate feigning talents to imitate, and Sam goes into a sort of daze, wondering not for the first time if he's just being, as Dean never hesitates to say, such a worrywart he might as well give up his Y chromosome.

But come three-twenty a.m., it all goes to shit.

Dean starts twitching, small little muscle spasms that aren't really noticeable, but might as well be flashing neon signs to his brother. Sam instantly jerks out of his fugue and flicks his eyes up to Dean, pupils expanded in the dim light the lamp gives off.

From his seat, he's got a good view of Dean, and even in the shadows of the room, Sam can see watery trails staining Dean's cheeks, falling from his shut eyes down to his nose and pooling on the sheets. Sam's seen his brother cry once before, so the action isn't _as_ shocking as it may have been months ago, but he'd never seen Dean cry while smiling. It's a weird thing to witness, it's…bittersweet is the only word Sam can think to attribute. Like Dean's going through turmoil, and yet whatever setting he's in is somehow peaceful.

When Dean mumbles "Mom" and then "Carmen" and then "I'm sorry" and "I love you," Sam runs a hand tiredly through his own hair, heaving a sigh. Had it not been for his naming a woman Sam can only presume—taking into account where Dean had gone—was Dean's girlfriend, he might have convinced himself that Dean was simply dreaming of their mother, and perhaps of when he was little, or a potential future or something. But Dean had included another woman's name, and the feeling he'd put behind it…Sam doesn't quite know what he's supposed to do.

He thinks about what Dean did when Sam had been having nightmares about Jessica burning on the ceiling; Dean had just let Sam work through them in his unconscious, left Sam alone until Sam confided in him. And it'd worked, mostly. Sam thinks that might be the way to go. Historically, anyhow, no matter from what angle Sam may approach Dean, the bastard wouldn't admit the truth. A one-liner, a caustic swat, a grin and Dean would cut himself off, just like that.

It pains Sam, it does, seeing Dean's face twisted and his chest tight, but he reasons that it's what Dean wants. So he clenches his jaw, tries to shut off his hearing, and goes back to poring over his book.

* * *

When Dean drags himself awake around ten forty-five, Sam's already on his third cup of coffee, bracing himself for the inevitable bitching from Dean about how Sam's not getting any sleep once he sees the bags under his eyes. Which makes it a complete surprise to Sam when Dean merely gives him a glance, then trudges into the bathroom, clicking the door shut softly behind him.

Sam pauses with his coffee halfway to his lips, the steam burning his skin. It's not just the lack of comment on Sam's sleeping habits—Dean _always_ says something upon waking up. More often than not, it has to do with food, or Sam's hair, or the like, and Sam's just grown so acclimatized to it that the barbs no longer catch, yet it's become an expectation. For the life of him, Sam can't recall a time when Dean's been so silent. More times than he can count, Sam'd wished Dean would _just shut up_, but now, he's really regretting ever thinking that. 'Cause Dean _this_ silent is just…scary.

* * *

It all wouldn't matter too much if it hadn't started to affect their jobs. Sam and Dean have both had their unfair share of emotional roller coasters, and they'd found the best-ish way to deal with it is to just go about things as usual and, most of all, try to pretend it never happened.

But when the brothers head a few states over to tackle a case and Dean's shorter than normal to the witnesses, and doesn't pay the pretty bartendress any attention besides ordering three more shots, Sam knows it's all going to get worse from there.

And indeed it does, as their crapshoot of luck would have it. Inevitably, they locate the monster, and Dean's running ahead of Sam in the woods, having gotten a head start. Sam thinks he sees the creature's mouth move, and then suddenly Dean stops, his shotgun held out. Sam nearly runs into him, but skids to a halt in time, looking over at his brother. Dean's not even threatening the monster. He's just…standing there, his face more stricken than Sam's ever seen it.

It's obvious Dean's not going to reanimate any time soon, so Sam takes it upon himself to quickly shoot the creature's chest full of consecrated iron, and watches it fall down then dissipate in purple sparks.

Sam's shred of hope thinks that maybe the creature had powers the lore hadn't stated, and the creature's able to freeze people or something, and that's why Dean looks the way he does. But Sam knows that's not accurate. It's even worse this time, because Sam knows what ails Dean. His brother's head is a perfect storm of turmoil, but right now, there's only one hurricane going on, and it's the one that Sam can't do anything about.

He kinda wishes they hadn't killed the djinn so soon; or at least a part of him does. Maybe he'd be able to go back to that stupid warehouse and trap the son of a bitch, make him tell him just what Dean saw. It's a foolhardy thought, however, considering he doubts the djinn knows what his victims actually see—he just knows that he grants their heart's innermost desire. But on just the off chance that…

Or maybe Sam could lure the djinn into doing the blue zappy thing to him, make _his_ heart's innermost desire to have Mom not die, and maybe he'd seen what Dean saw and understand better?

But he can't. 'Cause the djinn's dead, it's gone, and Dean might as well be gone, too, and Sam's left to pick up the pieces. This sort of thing had happened in the past, but at least then, there'd been John to distract Dean and tell him to get his ass in gear. And, truth be told, Sam was too distracted with resentment to really pay much attention to the workings of Dean's mind and his faculties.

Sam sighs, stows his gun, and punches Dean on the shoulder. "Come on, dude," he says. "The thing's dead."

He decides not to comment just yet on Dean's reaction to whatever the monster said, as well as putting off the inevitable question as to _what_ the monster had told Dean. Obviously it'd been something hugely fucking important to unhinge Dean like that, but it could wait. (For now.)

* * *

Sam knows he needs to do something _fast_ when Dean continues to deteriorate. The nightmares keep up, even though Sam's done his best to get sleep, and Dean looks more tired when he wakes up than when he went to bed. Sam sees him down caffeine like it's being banned, and Dean barely has the energy to style his hair, let alone do something to brighten up his wan-looking face. Sam hadn't exactly ever thought of Dean as _pretty_, per se, or any derivative thereof (that's just plain weird), but obviously there'd been _something_ women had liked about Dean's features. Sam's pretty sure, however, that the way Dean looks now isn't exactly what they'd term attractive.

Dean also hadn't been eating much, which, for Dean, may very well be a sign of a looming apocalypse. He'd order double bacon cheeseburgers as usual, but when he thought Sam wasn't looking, he'd stuff half of it in a napkin and feign chewing and swallowing, leaving the nearly full burger on the table or on the chair as they left the restaurant. Dean grows gaunter and grayer, like his body just isn't in it anymore.

When Dean sleeps in till three and immediately goes for the Jack Daniels that rests on the floor next to his bed, Sam knows it's past time to intervene. He'd left Dean alone for days, hoping that Dean would snap himself out of this funk, and that plan had failed miserably. Time for Plan B.

"Dean," Sam starts quietly, looking up from the newspaper at Dean's slouched form. Sam thinks of offering him breakfast—well, lunch—but knows Dean would just refuse it. "Dean, man, we gotta talk about this."

Dean finally meets Sam's eyes, and Sam is sadly unsurprised to see a lack of emotion in his brother's. "Shut up, Sam," he snaps, taking another swig of the alcohol before retreating into the bathroom, closing and locking the door.

Pinching the bridge of his nose and praying for resilience, Sam stands up and bangs on the door. "Damn it, Dean, I'm serious!" he exclaims, glaring daggers through the wood. "This is killing you. You need to talk about this!"

"I don't need to _talk_ about anything," Dean retorts back, voice muffled. "And you say one more word about it, I swear I'll kick your ass three states away. Leave me the fuck alone, Sam."

Sam drops his head in fatigue on the door. It isn't like he hadn't guessed this would happen, though. If there's one thing he'll forever readily say Dean's a master at (besides marksmanship), it's cutting his feelings off from people and being stubborn as all hell. Sam thinks, masochistically, that Dean's stonewalling had gotten ten times worse since Sam had left for Stanford. It makes sense—John wasn't very willing to listen to any kind of griping like Sam was. Doesn't make the guilt any less, however.

But Sam's a force to be reckoned with in his own right, and this is one fight he's not going to forfeit to his big brother. Goddamn it, he's twenty-four now: Dean's not going to boss him around, at least not right now.

Setting his jaw, Sam takes out his lock pick set, and goes to work on the latch. It takes him only ten seconds to jimmy the old fastening, and the door springs open. Dean's sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his back against the molding tile, head resting on his knee. Sam thinks Dean looks smaller than he should, and not just in general size, either. Somehow, Dean's simply…surrendering. It's not his brother, that's for damn sure.

This assessment is all done within a fraction of a second, of course, since the moment Sam opens the door, Dean has schooled his face into rage and indignation. "_Sam_!" he protests loudly. "What the hell're you doing? Who breaks into a bathroom while someone's in it?"

"Stop with the act," Sam demands sharply, the tone one he rarely has used, but that carries enough weight. "Your bullshit doesn't work on me. You can't just keep this all locked inside you, man, it'll _kill_ you. I know you don't want to, but you _have_ to talk to me about it. I'm your brother, I—"

"Which means all you're gonna do is psychoanalyze me, and _fuck it_, Sam, I'm not going to!" Dean interrupts vehemently, his gaze now holding an emotion—blazing, angry fire, this time. Sam'd like to say that _any_ emotion is a good one at this point, but honestly, he sorta fears for his life. He's _pretty_ sure that Dean's shown more than enough times that Sam's one of the most important things in his life, but that doesn't mean he can't end him, too.

"Yeah, well, you know what? I'm not going to let you self-destruct either," Sam argues. "You've done this before, and it never turns out well."

Dean's expression is deceptively blank, but then it morphs into a snarl as he slowly stands up from the bathtub. "You want to get punched in the face?" Dean threatens lowly. If Sam had thought Dean was bluffing, he doesn't anymore once he looks down and sees Dean's hand clenched in a fist. "I'm not going to say it again, Sam. Leave. Me. The fuck. Alone."

Sam has no intention to, but Dean's hand comes flying towards him, and it's only due to over two decades of reflex training that Sam's able to use the door to block his face. The blow avoids him, but hits the solid wood instead, leaving a long, eight-inch crack. Sam peers out from the door and sees Dean's knuckles bleeding and embedded with splinters, fat red drops slicking the bathroom tile. Dean shows no visible reaction to the pain, which kinda scares Sam; moreover, Dean looks a hair's breadth away from pounding the other fist into Sam's face. Maybe do worse.

So Sam betrays himself and his brother, and, his eyes downcast, backs out of the room, shutting the marred door with a click. He hears another loud strike on the other side, and has a sinking feeling Dean's hand just got a lot more injured. Sam also recognizes just what the action meant, crosses the room, and walks out the motel without a backwards glance.

* * *

When Sam comes back, Dean's cleaning and sharpening his knives, running the blades along the whetstone methodically, the sharp scraping a sound they've both been accustomed to their whole lives. Sam's afraid Dean might…try something, but Dean's face is flat, and as far as Sam can tell, he's just straightforwardly maintaining the weapons. Still, Sam falters.

"You gonna come in or what?" Dean monotones, still sliding the knife across the grain.

Sam looks at Dean's hand, and see he hadn't even bandaged it yet. Washed it off, maybe, and it's not dripping blood anymore, but he hadn't taken care of it. Sam shuts the door and strides over, pulling Dean's hand away from the stone and inspects it. There's more than a couple shards embedded, and the skin around the lacerations is red and raw, but Dean snatches out of Sam's grip.

"Dean, it could get infected," Sam chides, thinking that the last thing they need right now is Dean to get tetanus. "Look, I know you're kinda pissed at me right now, but at least put some Neosporin on it or something."

"I'm _fine_, Sam," Dean says, and if Sam had a nickel for every time he'd heard that in the last few days, they wouldn't need to do credit card scams anymore, that's for sure.

Sam huffs, but gets up and goes to the first aid kit, pulling out some gauze, antiseptic, and tweezers. He tosses the items at Dean, who catches them out of reflex. "Just do it," Sam orders. "Or I'll drag you to the hospital."

Dean sneers, but if there's one threat he'll abide by, it's hospitals. He hates those fucking things. Snapping the whetstone case closed and setting his knife on the bedside table, he sets to work, showing nothing on his face as he digs the forceps into his skin and pulls out the bits of wood stuck in there. It isn't long before they're cleared, and Dean grudgingly rubs the antibiotic over his knuckles, skillfully wrapping the gauze around and tucking it underneath his palm.

"Happy?" Dean grouses, throwing the objects back at his brother.

"Ecstatic," Sam deadpans, returning them to the bag and glancing at Dean's handiwork. It's not terrible, the fast precision honed over the years, but it's not exactly sterile, either.

Uncomfortable with the silence that settles, Dean stands up and shoves a newspaper into Sam's hands. "Think we got another case," he says, pointing to an article. "It's over in Trenton, Missouri. I already packed everything up. We're leaving in five."

There's no allowance for argument, but Sam wouldn't be Sam if he didn't push the limits. "Dean, you're in no shape to—"

Dean turns to face Sam, his eyes dead but expression furious. "Sam, I swear to God," he growls, breathing heavy, "you say one more thing about that…"

Sam sets down the newspaper gently, and stares meaningfully at Dean. "I'm your brother," he pleads again, wishing he could get things out of Dean as easily as he could the people they interrogate. "Just let me help you. I can help you. You can't keep this to yourself."

"No, Sam," says Dean in the most weary of voices Sam's ever heard him, the fury and impassion gone. "I can't. I won't. It's mine to…to deal with."

Sam wants to pry, he desperately does, just find _some way _to just _help his brother_, but beyond Dean's stubbornness is fear and regret, Sam can see that clear as day. He knows his brother is proud of what he's done in the past, of saving people, of hunting things, but even though Sam doesn't know exactly what the reality Dean went to entailed, Dean's eyes say it all.

Sam can't fathom what Dean went through, or how he had the strength to drag himself out of what would have promised a wonderful life. Truth is, he's not sure he wants to fathom it. 'Cause then he's not entirely sure he'd still feel the same way—he's not sure he'd still want Dean with him.

He loves his brother, he won't ever say otherwise, and he doesn't think hunting solo would do his soul well, but if the other option is Dean's happiness, well. It's a no-brainer. Dean deserves that other existence, the one that doesn't suck total balls, and Sam can't give it to him.

So he follows Dean out the door and into the Impala, and as they merge onto the interstate, AC/DC blasting through the speakers, Dean's face unreadable, Sam thinks maybe Dean was right. Maybe Sam can't help him, and maybe Dean does need to deal with the mind torture he's suffering from by himself.

But he can sure as fuck try to be the _brother_ Dean deserves. And by hell, he will.


End file.
